


an unscratchable itch in the canal of your ear

by marquelict



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Self-Indulgent, hard of hearing character, hoh!scorpius, i wrote this bc no one else would, use of BSL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:28:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24956857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marquelict/pseuds/marquelict
Summary: Snippets of life for Scorpius, who lost half his hearing as a child, and the itch that was there then, comes suddenly back.
Relationships: Scorpius Malfoy/Albus Severus Potter
Comments: 12
Kudos: 84





	an unscratchable itch in the canal of your ear

**Author's Note:**

> “knit your soul to mine,   
> and i will turn you into  
> a poem.
> 
> words never die.” — Nadine Tomlinson
> 
> \---
> 
> as someone who is hoh myself and has written scorpius in this fic exactly the same as me, i'm comfortable enough to say that all of his actions and feelings in this fic are entirely my own. i'm drawing from my own experiences as a member of the deaf community and am in no way suggesting that everything in this fic pertains to every deaf/hoh person. just me. i'm also an american so if anything is incorrect in terms of grammar i apologize. 
> 
> anything sign is written with italics and anything said is written normally.

Scorpius remembers the very feeling of going deaf. The itch that he was unable to scratch away. It felt all fuzzy in his ear, like a cloud had burrowed itself deep in the canal. 

He always prodded at it, poked at his ear, tried to scratch away the itch. He never could, though. 

Almost daily he complained to his mother and father about it. “What’s wrong with me?” he asked, voice quiet, as they sat at the long oak table for supper one night. “Why does my ear feel like this? Why won’t the itch go away? It feels… It feels weird.”

His parents took him to see a Healer.

The Healer told the three of them, very plainly and with a very stoic, set face, that Scorpius was losing the hearing in his left ear. They used a muggle term to describe it: Mondini Syndrome. Something had gone impressively wrong when he’d been just a fetus, trapped in Astoria’s belly.

Scorpius had never seen his father cry before until then. His mother wept, too, holding Scorpius tight to her chest, stroking his thin blond hair with her slender fingers. “We love you, darling,” she whispered. “This is only a minor setback, I promise.”

Scorpius had been six, then. A lot of things had happened since. He’d learned BSL; a private tutor would come every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday to teach the Malfoy’s. He’d gone off to Hogwarts some time later and met Albus, who learned very quickly not to say things like, “But you don’t look deaf.” And Albus started to learn BSL for him during late nights in the Slytherin common room and on the grounds under a willow tree — although not the whomping kind — on particularly sunny afternoons. 

His mother passed away, too, and Scorpius had sobbed into his father’s waistcoat and into Albus’s shoulder and into his pillow when he thought everyone else in the dorm room was sound asleep.

Sixth year was here, hovering on the edge of the horizon, the rest of his days long forgotten. Abandoned to the tresses of time where he’d rather they stay, locked away.

Scorpius lounged in the common room, chin on his palm, watching the lime green flames roar in the fireplace. They shot up, sizzling, sparks spraying some, before simmering for a second — the sharp crackle of logs in the background snapping, though they were faint in his ear — and then resuming their ascent. 

Someone tapped his shoulder lightly and Scorpius turned his head to look up. It was Albus, of course it was, with a small smile gracing his lips. He hopped over the couch to sit beside his friend, his hand lingering a little too close to Scorpius’s before he pulled it to his lap — hesitating.

“ _ You okay?” _ Albus signed. 

Scorpius huffed, blowing away the stray hairs that rested on his forehead, returning his chin to the palm of his hand. “I’m realizing some things,” he said. 

When Scorpius spoke, his voice was loud and playful. It was also something people liked to point out.

“Why are you so loud, Scorpius?”

“Could you please speak quieter?”

“He’s probably trying to overcompensate for his lack of hearing.”

It wasn’t his fault, really. The way that he lacked the ability to understand how loud the inflection of his words were. If he was overcompensating, then so be it! He was who he was and his deafness was irreversible.

“ _ Realizing some things _ ,” Albus repeated, brows raised, a brash look about his features. “ _ What things? _ ”

“Things.”

His itch had returned. The unscratchable thing that irritated him and drove him mad and tortured him. 

Though it wasn’t in his ear this time. 

His heart felt kind of fuzzy, kind of relenting and undiscovered and secretive. The itch burrowed itself in his chest and sat there, humming, distracting Scorpius from his daily tasks, from his work in class, from his late night studies. 

The itch returned when he sat at breakfast, Albus across from him, signing. Describing things in quick succession: classes (and how much he despised them), the professors (and their tendency to compare him — or distance him — from his father), quips about his summer (even though the two boys had swapped over a dozen letters), and “ _ Damn, breakfast today is really good _ .”

The itch was everywhere. 

He looked away from Albus and back to the fire, eyes trained on the sparks. 

Some rustling commenced beside him. Albus had lain down across the couch, propping his feet in Scorpius’s lap, a playful smile on his face. 

“Rose came up to me again today,” Albus said. 

Scorpius eyes flitted over Albus’s face; his brown eyes, bright — though only in Scorpius’s presence, it seemed — and soft, the narrow line of his nose, his lips parted and pink. When he spoke his voice was like the rustling of leaves in the autumn wind, like the small waves that lapped against the windows in the common room, like Headmistress McGonagall’s cloak sweeping across the floor. 

And even though Scorpius preferred his friend use BSL, they spoke aloud sometimes — like now, when they were all alone and no one could hear them. 

They were alone often. Scorpius had always been quite lonely, though, but as long as he had Albus’s company he didn’t think he would mind loneliness very much. 

Albus was his itch, just like Rose used to be.

“I’m over her,” Scorpius replied, his voice sounded distant and vague. 

“Oh.” Albus’s shoulders eased some — like years of tension had left his body after the utterance of three words. “Anyway, she wants us at the Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff match this weekend. And to sport red and gold colors.”

“Are we?”

“The matches are always so loud,” Albus said, his fingers picking at a thread stitched into the leather couch.

Scorpius moved to unlace Albus’s shoes, something to distract his hands while Albus’s concern for him triggered the ever-growing itch. “I can cast a muffling charm,” he said. “Do you want to go?”

Albus frowned, picked at the thread some more. “Not really.”

“Then let’s not,” Scorpius finalized. 

He’d unlaced both of Albus’s shoes by now and was slowly pulling them off his friends feet. He dropped them to the floor with a soft thud. Albus wiggled his toes, a grin dancing on his lips. 

“ _ Do this for all your friends? _ ” he signed. 

Scorpius shot him an annoyed glance. “You’re the only one.”

“ _ Good. _ ”

And the flames that shot out from the fireplace with fervor died down and the two went down to their dorm, Albus wrapping an arm around Scorpius’s shoulders, holding him tight as his shoes dangled from Scorpius’s fingers. 

The next morning brought potions in the dungeon — something that Albus had always hated. He struggled more than most, always had, and it made his jaw clench in misery.

So of course, the Professor separated the two friends, who’d always worked together. It helped that Scorpius excelled in most of his classes — especially potions — and did most of the work in potions, delegating Albus to the partner that “fetched the ingredients” and “stirred the cauldron when asked.” 

Scorpius was placed up front, as he always was in every class, in order to hear the professor and their instructions. A spell hung in the air in front of them in white block letters, repeating their words like subtitles.

Albus had been moved to the back of the room, the aching smell of smoke and sulfur reaching around from the cauldrons — in use by the professor — that lined the back of the classroom. He’d been partnered with Rose, who’s nose scrunched up as she read the textbook in front of her, and so Albus took to staring across the classroom miserably at his best friend.

Scorpius stared back, partnered with a Gryffindor boy who stood an extra few feet away from the blond, distancing himself from him.

“ _ She did this on purpose _ ,” Scorpius signed.

He spoke of the professor, who’d kicked back in the armchair at her desk and was rifling through a copy of Witch’s Weekly and biting into a stale looking apple.

Albus shrugged. “ _ How’s your potion coming along? _ ”

“ _ Better than yours. _ ” 

Scorpius grinned as Albus narrowed his eyes, steam rising up in front of his face from his shared cauldron. The color of the potion resembled that of the Black Lake, in that it was murky and the exact opposite of what the instructions required.

“ _ What’s the right color? _ ” Albus asked.

“ _ Yellow _ ,” Scorpius replied, smiling. “ _ Like a sunflower _ .”

Scorpius went back to his potion. The Gryffindor beside him flicked through the textbook, probably not even reading it. Albus sneered — at least when he was partnered with Scorpius he  _ did _ something.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as Scorpius pulled the sleeves of his shirt up to stir his potion, a friendship bracelet — a blue and purple thing that he and Albus had swapped in second year — dangling from his thin wrist. Albus looked down at his own, pulling up his sleeve just a little to reveal a similar bracelet in the colors pink and yellow. 

_ Like a sunflower _ .

“What’s that?” Rose asked, voice low in a whisper.

Albus pulled his sleeve back over the bracelet. “A reminder.”

“Fine,” Rose said, not even bothering to ask again. “Keep to yourself.”

He looked back up toward Scorpius, his face gone soft. Scorpius stared right back at him, the corners of his lips pulled up in a small smile.

That evening, Scorpius found himself in the Library, reading over a very old and very dusty textbook. Each page was fragile to his fingertips, threatening to disintegrate everytime he flipped to the next section. 

He let his fingers slide over the inscriptions, the ring on his left hand glinting. It was the same ring, his father had told him, that he’d worn himself during his time at Hogwarts. 

Scorpius yawned and glanced around the Library. It was vacant; the time, he checked, drawing close to 9 pm. The Library was about to close and anyways, Scorpius didn’t think he’d get through the rest of his homework tonight.

He wondered, distantly, as he traipsed through the corridors, if Albus had already gone to bed. 

Scorpius pressed his hand to the cold wall of the corridor and let it slide across the stone as he went. The stone was rough, scratching at the softness of his palm — but as rough as it was, and as much as it scratched, it did not rid him of his itch.

He was hopeless, he thought. 

It was quite impossible for Albus to return his feelings — his rather brash feelings, his rather…  _ sudden _ feelings. He’d been itching absentmindedly for Rose since he could possibly remember; been kissed by her too, once, though she had hesitated and refused to ever do it again under any circumstances.

And when she did… Scorpius had realized he had never really wanted that. It was a fantasy that he’d gripped in his fingers and had been unable to release. Something he never thought he’d get so he condensed his entire self into wanting it. 

And then when he got it… he didn’t want it any longer. 

He’d been, he’d come to realize that long summer before sixth year, entrenched with the idealization of Albus instead. While Rose was unlikely, Albus was an impossibility. 

So his brain, the back of it, without thought or forewarning or mulling over, had chosen what was unlikely over what was an impossibility. 

The very core of him ached — ached so rottenly — for Albus that the same itch he’d gotten when he was six and a child and losing a part of himself had returned. It was as if, distantly, Albus was a part of him; attached to him, to his presence, to the idea and the essence and the very being of him.

Scorpius whispered the password to the Slytherin common room, his eyes drooping, his heart heavy. 

The common room at this hour was partially vacant, almost the same as the Library had been. Along the wall were little lanterns filled with flickering green fires and deep from the common room, perhaps from the couch, came quiet whispers and short giggles.

Scorpius carried on, the book bag slung over his shoulder feeling suddenly heavy. 

His eyes turned on one of the armchairs by the giant glass window that revealed the murky waters of the Black Lake. It was the itch that drew him — that little bit of him that told him, there’s Albus, there’s where he’ll always be, waiting for you.

Albus was curled up in the chair, his hair mussed, his eyes closed. His lips were parted, slightly, and if he was in mid-dream, it was probably something pleasant. 

The whispering halted as Scorpius made his way to the armchair holding Albus in its cushion-y grip. Scorpius spared the couch a glance. Three girls, all probably fourth year or younger, watched him, eyes betraying nothing but indifference.

“ _ Fuck off _ ,” Scorpius signed.

One of the girls brows crinkled in confusion. The other two looked away in disinterest. All unable to identify what he’d said to them — nor did they even care — continued on with their whispering, aware that Scorpius could only pick up tiny bits of their conversation.

He made his way, at last, to the chair with Albus. Quietly, he set his book bag down against the chair, and, with some difficulty, edged himself beside the brunet. 

The chair could hold two first years — and it had: back when Albus and Scorpius had been eleven and tormented by the rest of their house,  _ by the rest of the school _ . 

They’d been utterly alone except for themselves, but that was okay, because they had each other; they didn’t need anyone else  _ but _ each other.

Albus mumbled something against Scorpius’s cheek.

“What is it?” Scorpius asked, his voice low but not entirely a whisper.

“You’re back.”

His words were hot against Scorpius’s skin and the blond shivered. Albus untucked his arm from where it’d had been wrapped around his stomach and instead wrapped it around Scorpius, pulling him in.

“Yes,” Scorpius confirmed. “I was in the Library, thought you knew.”

Albus nodded, eyes peeling open blearily. “I did,” he answered. “But I missed you. It gets quite lonely here.”

“Join me then.”

Albus’s nose scrunched. “Absolutely not, I hate it there.”

“Even if I’m there?”

“You make it… just a tad bearable.”

Scorpius leaned in and pressed his forehead to Albus’s. Albus sighed contentedly, his eyes sliding shut, unable to reopen. 

“I have an itch,” Scorpius said lightly. 

“Do you?”

“It won’t go away.”

“It won’t?”

Scorpius let his eyes close at last, too. “It won’t,” he repeated. “But I need it to go away because I can’t function. Normally. With it.”

“Then tell me,” Albus breathed out. Scorpius almost didn’t hear him.

“Please don’t hate me for it.” Scorpius was begging now, his voice taut and worried. 

“I could never hate you.”

“You might.”

Albus’s eyes flickered open for a brief second. “Never.”

Taking a deep breath, Scorpius moved his hand so that he could hold Albus’s. Albus let him. Grateful. 

“You,” Scorpius said, the singular word heavy in his mouth. “It’s you. You’re my itch. I… I can’t spend another day like this without you knowing, even if it ends up hurting me. Hurting you. I… I need you, like a second breath. I like you, impossibly so.”

Albus’s smile stretched. “Good god, you’re thick.”

“What?” Scorpius almost recoiled, confused. 

“I’ve been waiting ages to hear that, are you kidding me?”

“Really?”

“Would I lie to you, Scorpius?” Albus asked, squeezing Scorpius’s hand. “Would I?”

“About this?”

Albus let his eyes open, tired and groggy, so that he could look plainly into Scorpius’s own. He unlatched their hands and brought his own up to Scorpius’s cheek, stroking the soft skin beneath the pad of his thumb.

Scorpius leaned heartily into the touch. Like it was second nature.

“I like you back, you nerd.”

And then a second later: “Is your itch gone?”

“It might,” Scorpius said, “if you kiss me.”

“Oh?”

Albus, smiling softly, pulled Scorpius’s lips to his and gave him a gentle kiss. Scorpius, heart in his stomach, reciprocated, leaning in further, chasing Albus’s mouth with his own. 

His itch began to settle, slowly and then — it dissipated entirely. 


End file.
